


Up The Garden Path

by lamardeuse



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-25
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-24 15:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/941679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The summer after Lewis retired, Sundays became allotment days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Up The Garden Path

**Author's Note:**

> Written for lewis_challenge on LJ.
> 
> Thanks to elesecks for the original prompt, which intrigued me because Lewis and Hathaway and "erotic foot massage" didn't exactly go together in my mind at first. However, I was keen to try a challenge, so I went for it and had a great deal of fun with it.

The summer after Lewis retired, Sundays became allotment days. Hathaway – James – joined him after Mass, and they pottered a bit, sat a bit, chatted a bit. No matter how much sun lotion James would put on, he'd always end up with a pink-tipped nose come late afternoon. They got to know their neighbours, even old Mister Shadwell, who confessed he'd never liked coppers much, but he supposed James and Robbie were all right blokes.

 

Lewis expected it to be harder to pack it in, but he fell into retirement easily. He cultivated hobbies, even attended an Open University course on the history of music. He took an overnight trip to Manchester every other week, and learned to use a digital camera. He got a Facebook account to keep up with Lyn and the bairn the rest of the time, though he never posted anything himself because he didn't see the point. He searched the Internet for recipes, and learned to cook after a fashion.

 

One Sunday, he asked James if he had a Facebook account. James only shuddered.

 

The summer wore on, and this being England, they couldn't count on nice weather at the weekends. Sometimes they met on a weekday, where James' schedule permitted. He was back at uni, pursuing a master's in theology. Lewis didn't ask if he was thinking about returning to the priesthood, though the question crawled up the back of his throat at inopportune times, seeking a voice.

 

James would tell him in his own time, Lewis told himself.

 

In mid-July, they had their first harvest of beans. Lewis took James home and cooked him lamb shank and a French green bean salad with shallots and cream that he learned to make watching Simon Hopkinson on the telly. James was duly appreciative.

 

“Have you cooked this for the good doctor yet?” James asked between bites. “Because if you do, I think she'll ask you to marry her on the spot.”

 

Lewis' stomach lurched. He could have sworn he'd mentioned it, but obviously he was wrong. “Laura and I – we're not seeing one another any more.” He waved a hand. “Well, we're still seeing one another, but not – that way. We've decided we're better off as friends.”

 

“Oh,” James said. Lewis had noticed that since James had quit the force, his expressions were much easier to read, but this one was impossible to decipher. “I'm sorry,” James added, almost as an afterthought _._

 

“It's fine,” Lewis said, and it was, mostly. It had been two months now, and he didn't regret it; he knew Laura didn't. “It was my own fault, thinking I could jump into a love affair at my time of life.”

 

James frowned. “You're hardly past it.”

 

“Past that, lad,” Lewis insisted. He certainly wasn't going to go into detail, but he imagined Hathaway could read between the lines. A decade's age difference didn't make for the best sexual compatibility, though that certainly wasn't all of it.

 

“You'll find someone,” James said. “Don't give up just yet.”

 

“Eh, I'm not fussed,” Lewis said. “I'm okay as I am. I have good friends” – he nodded at James – “and my family. That's enough.”

 

James smiled at him, but it didn't reach his eyes. After a moment, they returned to eating, and finished the rest of the meal in silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lewis ran out of people to give beans to, so James started passing them out to his circle – his bandmates, some of the other students he knew. And then the carrots were ready, and it started all over again. This time, James cooked for him, a recipe from his great aunt, he said.

 

“Your great aunt Rosemary?” Lewis asked, peering over James' shoulder. There was butter, caster sugar and parsnips involved. Fresh parsley sat to the side. “Want me to chop that?”

 

James raised his head and twisted round, nearly bumping into Lewis in the process. Lewis took a step back; he'd been standing rather close. “Yes and yes,” James said, smiling. “Thanks.”

 

Lewis moved to the counter, selected a knife from the rack and began chopping the herb. When he looked up, James was twisting a pepper mill over the contents of the foil packet he'd made. It occurred to him that he and Laura never did this; they cooked for one another, but not together. He'd offered to help on occasion, but Laura had politely turned him down every time. She finally explained that she'd never had much luck sharing a kitchen. Lewis had tried not to take that the wrong way, and mostly failed.

 

“I'm surprised you remember her name,” James said, taking a handful of the parsley and sprinkling it over the carrots before sealing up the packet with careful fingers. “I must have only mentioned her once or twice.”

 

Lewis didn't say that was because James spoke so rarely about his family, any fact he did glean was instantly memorable. “When you did speak of her, it sounded like she was important to you,” he said instead, shrugging.

 

“She was,” James said softly. “She raised me after my mother died,” he added, and that was more than James had said to him about his family in over seven years.

 

Lewis took the unused parsley and placed it back in the storage bag. “Did she have children of her own?”

 

James shook his head. “She lost her husband in the war, and never remarried.”

 

“Pity,” Lewis murmured. “Still, she had you, eh?”

 

James grimaced. “I'm afraid I was more trouble than I was worth, though she was kind enough to never say so.”

 

“That's because no child is ever more trouble than they're worth,” Lewis told him firmly. James raised his head, startled, then nodded, conceding the point.

 

“Any road,” Lewis continued, “she was there when you needed her. And maybe she needed you a little, too.”

 

“I don't know what I would have done without her,” James murmured. “She literally saved my life.”

 

“Then I'm grateful to her,” Lewis said. James regarded him steadily for a long moment, and Lewis wondered what was going through his head. Before he could make a guess, though, James turned away to put the carrots in the oven.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On the first Sunday in August, Lewis found Mister Shadwell hobbling around his garden, cursing at the weeds. He'd broken his leg, it turned out, and hadn't been by the allotment in more than a fortnight. By the time Hathaway arrived, Lewis was all over sweat. Together, they finished the weeding, then harvested his crop of tomatoes and radishes. Mister Shadwell – Bob, now – was so grateful to them he insisted they take a generous share.

 

When they returned to Lewis' flat with their booty, Lewis' muscles were aching, though his feet were the worst, arches screaming at him. When he said as much, James shot him that look that said _I told you to buy decent wellies_ , which he had. “All right, I'll pop round the shop tomorrow for a better pair,” Lewis grumbled, easing them off outside the door and stumbling over the threshold.

 

James' hand was immediately on his arm, steadying him. “Too late to save them,” he drawled. “We'll have to amputate.”

 

“You're a caution, you are,” Lewis muttered, and James bit his lip to stifle a smile.

 

“Why don't you take a hot shower, try to ease those muscles?” Lewis raised his head at James' suggestion, trying not to let the surprise show on his face. “It'll take me a while to chop the tomatoes and start the sauce.”

 

“I should help you,” Lewis said. It wasn't the way to treat a guest, making them do all the work in your kitchen. Though James wasn't exactly a guest any longer, was he?

 

“Oh no, you don't,” James said firmly. “As soon as you finish your shower, you're getting off those feet.”

 

“So you're giving the orders now, are you?”

 

James took a step towards him and smiled a little wickedly. It made Lewis feel inexplicably warm. “You're not my guv'nor any longer, remember?” James rumbled. “It's a brave new world.”

 

Lewis opened his mouth to say something – he wasn't sure what – but before he could manage it, James added, “I feel badly that you had to do so much on your own. Please let me take c – I mean, I'd feel better if you took it easy.”

 

“Give over,” Lewis countered. James only regarded him with steady, faintly hopeful eyes, and Lewis sighed. “Fine, I'll be back in a bit,” he muttered.

 

James rewarded his compliance with a blinding grin, and this time when Lewis stumbled, it wasn't his sore feet that were the reason.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After a shower that went a long way to easing his aches, and a meal of pasta with fresh _pomodoro_ sauce, Lewis was feeling a good deal more human. His feet were still in a desperate way, though.

 

James did the washing up – without help, at his insistence – and joined Lewis on the couch, where Lewis was sat with his feet propped up watching the England versus Sri Lanka test match. He began to move them out of the way, only to have Hathaway place a broad hand on his ankle, stopping him.

 

“Still bad?” James asked. Lewis' feet were bare, had been since his shower. James' hand on his skin felt electric, shocking. At first, Lewis couldn't think of the proper words to answer him.

 

“They'll mend,” he finally managed, his voice sounding strained to his own ears.

 

Hathaway made a noncommittal noise in return. Right at that moment, England took a wicket, and Lewis' attention was momentarily distracted.

 

And then James' hand slid to the top of Lewis' foot.

 

Lewis kept his eyes glued to the telly as James' fingers slowly began to move, exerting gentle pressure to the ball of his foot, cautiously massaging the arch. Lewis had never been very ticklish, but it was all he could do to keep from squirming. And then Hathaway's fingers dug in a bit, and Lewis twitched, foot jerking in his hold.

 

“Sorry,” James said. His voice was barely above a murmur. “Was that a sore spot?”

 

“One of them,” Lewis grunted. James paused, his hand unmoving. His gaze caught and held Lewis', then skittered away.

 

Lewis knew he should say something, should tell him he appreciated the gesture, but he'd be fine. Tell him that was beyond even a sergeant's job description – but no, James hadn't been his sergeant for nearly a year, and never would be again.

 

Before he could speak, James murmured, “I'll be gentle,” and his hand stirred, raising gooseflesh on Lewis' skin. “Though it would be better if –” and with that, he suddenly tugged one of Lewis' feet onto his lap.

 

“Hang on –” Lewis began, sitting up straighter.

 

“It's easier this way – better angle,” Hathaway explained, as though it made perfect sense for Lewis to have his feet in James' lap. While Lewis was still processing this, James brought the other one to lay alongside the first. “Let me know if I hurt you again.”

 

Lewis could only nod as his heart pounded and his blood skidded through his veins. He focused on calming his breathing, on the match, on anything that wasn't James Hathaway's touch, but it was impossible.

 

Lewis blinked at the television, which had gone completely out of focus. It occurred to him that the last person to give him any kind of massage was Val, over a decade ago now. Well, not quite; he'd had a few massages from therapists when he was recovering from that back injury. But those hadn't been like Val's, or like this one. There was a familiarity in the press of James' fingers, an intimacy Lewis knew he wasn't imagining. James was touching him like he had a right to, like he'd been doing it for years.

 

And then Lewis remembered pats on the back, a hand gripping his shoulder, an arm around him helping him to his feet when he'd stumbled. He supposed this wasn't new.

 

What was new, however, was the flicker of arousal Lewis was beginning to feel as James' hands continued their soothing ministrations. He fought down the first wave of panic, telling himself it was an instinctive reaction, nothing to get worked up about. It would fade soon enough.

 

Hathaway's deft touch loosened a knot of pain in the ball of his foot. Lewis groaned involuntarily, then froze as James' gaze snapped up to meet his. They stared at one another for a long moment, and then Hathaway's bloody magical hands did it again. Lewis bit his lip to keep from making a sound and shifted on the couch while James watched him. His arousal, he realised with dismay, was not fading: quite the opposite, in fact. He flushed under Hathaway's steady gaze, heart rate climbing at the fear of discovery.

 

Lewis knew he should put a stop to this, but somehow he couldn't make his mouth form the words. It felt too damned good to give up. James' hands were relentless, finding all of the places where Lewis ached. The sudden relief from hours of pain was going straight to his groin, and Lewis shut his eyes, certain Hathaway would be able to read his weakness easily. He'd always been good at detecting guilt.

 

James switched his attentions to Lewis' other foot. Suddenly, a startling image appeared behind Lewis' eyelids: James' hands roaming over Lewis' legs, arms, shoulders, back, chest, belly. His cheeks felt as though they were on fire; surely James had to know, had to have seen the reaction he was causing. Obviously he wasn't bothered by it, though, because he kept up his massage for another few minutes, while Lewis wondered how the hell he'd apparently turned into a bloke who had a sexual identity crisis in the middle of a foot massage.

 

“How's that?” James asked, a bit breathless, as Lewis' feet – not to mention other parts – tingled with the aftershocks of James' touch.

 

“Much better,” Lewis managed, amazed his own voice was steady. He removed his feet from James' lap, then made a show of poking at them experimentally.

 

“Checking to see if I did any permanent damage?” James asked, a little defensively, Lewis thought.

 

Lewis met his gaze, let him know he hadn't missed the double meaning of that question. James looked away first. “Just amazed you've managed to restore the circulation. A few hours ago, I was sure I'd lose them,” Lewis said. James rewarded him with a conciliatory snort.

 

“Thanks,” Lewis added, simply.

 

James looked at him again, and suddenly Lewis felt warm all the way down to his toes. “Anytime,” he murmured, and oh, Christ, was that an invitation? And if so, an invitation to what, exactly?

 

Lewis nodded stiffly, then returned his attention to the cricket match. He was definitely too old for this bollocks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next day, Lewis went down to the shops and bought himself the best pair of wellies he could find. The saleswoman assured him that they would be the most comfortable boots he had ever worn, and he smiled and told her he hoped she was right.

 

That Sunday, James noticed them right away. “Good choice,” he said, nodding his approval. Lewis wondered if he were an expert on wellies now, on top of every bloody thing else, but he held his tongue. He searched James' face for signs of disappointment. When he found none, he told himself he should be relieved.

 

Coming home with their bounty – this time, they'd traded carrots for peas from Mrs. Greene, who had the spot next to them – they stopped by Tesco on the way to pick up the other ingredients. James asked to hop in Lewis' shower, and Lewis offered him a clean t-shirt, which James accepted. He emerged a short time later with a Newcastle United logo plastered across his chest and a faint smirk on his face.

 

“Looks good on you,” Lewis remarked, smirking back.

 

“It's a terrible thing to give an Arsenal fan.”

 

“Are you?” Lewis asked, surprised. Hathaway had never mentioned football in all the time he'd known him.

 

James shook his head. “Not really. I used to follow them when I was younger, but I haven't kept up with football for ages.”

 

Lewis wondered if it was one of those things he'd given up when he'd entered the seminary – but no, he knew men of the cloth who were footy fanatics. Perhaps it had happened earlier than that. Maybe his mum had cheered on Arsenal, and Hathaway had lost the habit when he lost her.

 

“Still, wouldn't want to challenge old loyalties,” Lewis said. “Take it off, lad; I'll find you something else.”

 

“No, it's all right,” James said, looking down at the shirt, his hand rising to touch the logo with an odd reverence. “I suppose I can belong to the Northeast for one evening.”

 

Then James raised his head, and Lewis felt all the air leave the room. He might be thick about this sort of thing, but the look in Hathaway's eyes – that wasn't his imagination, couldn't be. He tried to be shocked, but as he thought about it, Lewis realised it was a familiar expression: he'd seen that teasing glint countless times before, but the clear affection beneath it wasn't as surprising as he wanted to believe. He'd always put it down to Hathaway taking the mickey – like holding his hand and calling him 'darling' that day in the school – but now he wondered how long there'd been some truth behind the pigtail-pulling.

 

Or maybe he was seeing things he – Christ, did he _want_ Hathaway to be flirting with him? And if he did, what would be the proper response?

 

 _You'd usually flirt back, you great pillock,_ a voice in Lewis' head admonished.

 

Lewis opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Finally he cleared his throat. “Well, I'd best get cleaned up as well,” he croaked, and fled.

 

As he stood in the shower, letting the water wash over him and cursing himself for being a coward, he reminded himself he was past this sort of thing. Then it occurred to him that James had been standing here naked not five minutes before, and felt his skin go hot all over.

 

Lewis rested his forehead against the tile. Looked as though that sexual identity crisis were still going on, then. Good to know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They passed another companionable evening preparing and eating supper together – Lewis took the lead this time, and James seemed content to act as his sous-chef, peeling and chopping as directed. Brushing elbows and shoulders occasionally as they worked was familiar, too. They'd never had any sense of personal space, even at the beginning.

 

After the meal, they relaxed again on the couch. There was an old film on ITV, a Trevor Howard thriller.

 

“My great-aunt was sweet on him,” James said, settling further into the couch. “She called him 'dishy.'”

 

“Nothing against your great-aunt, but I can't say I see it.”

 

“He's an acquired taste, I suppose.”

 

“Hm,” Lewis agreed. “You know, Laura called you dishy once.” He could feel James turn to stare at the side of his face, and bit his tongue to keep from smirking.

 

“Really,” James drawled, bringing his beer bottle to his lips. “I suppose you can't say you see that, either.”

 

Lewis glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. “Well, I'd certainly pick you over old Trevor.”

 

James nearly choked on his beer. He recovered quickly, but the strain of not coughing turned his face an alarming shade of red. “I'm flattered,” he managed.

 

Lewis did smirk, then; if Hathaway and his magic hands were going to make him question everything he thought he'd known about himself, he might as well get a bit of his own back. He flipped the channel to an old _Carry On_ movie _._ “Now that's better.”

 

James gusted a laugh. “Oh God, don't tell me you like those horrible films.”

 

“Now, now, don't be looking down your long nose. Remember, you were one of the lads on the estate.”

 

“Are you saying it's the curse of the working class to enjoy crap entertainment?”

 

“Have you even watched a Carry On film all the way through?”

 

James' eyes drifted heavenwards. “I've seen random bits of about six different ones. Since they're all the same, I reckon that adds up to one, yeah.”

 

“You'd best say no more, lad,” Lewis said, pointing imperiously at the telly. “Just sit and watch.”

 

“Yes, _sir_ ,” Hathaway rumbled, and Lewis refused to find that small act of rebellion attractive.

 

They watched in silence for a while, punctuated only by the occasional chuckle from Lewis. It was just beginning to occur to him that these weren't as funny as he remembered when James said conversationally, “How are the feet today?”

 

Lewis' heart rate spiked. “Not bad,” he said. He wiggled his toes in his socks.

 

“I've found that new wellies can be a bit, erm, stiff.”

 

Lewis glanced over at him. The tips of the lad's ears were decidedly pink, and he was staring at the telly as though Sid James were imparting the secrets of the universe.

 

“Now that you mention it,” Lewis said, his voice cracking, “they were.”

 

Hathaway met his gaze and held it. “Well, then,” he murmured, holding out his hands in invitation, “better safe than sorry.”

 

Lewis was surprised at how easy it was to lift his feet and place them in James' lap, though once they were there, James seemed at a loss as to what to do with them. Then Lewis realised he was still wearing his socks; he should have taken them off before, but offering to do it now would be awkward.

 

_As if things aren't already awkward. Bloody hell, what are we doing?_

 

And then James' hand slid up Lewis' leg to the edge of his sock, and every thought went flying out of Lewis' head. James was staring at his feet with an oddly endearing determination, his lip caught between his teeth. When he began to roll the sock down, there was such tenderness in the gesture that Lewis found it hard to catch his breath.

 

With one sock gone, James ran what felt like a proprietary hand over the top of Lewis' bare foot, then began on the other one.

 

“James,” Lewis rasped. The lad looked up at him, eyes hot and desperate, a clear plea in them, and Lewis shut his mouth once more.

 

When James' fingers sank into the ball of his foot, Lewis closed his eyes and didn't even pretend not to enjoy every damned moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Laura slid into the booth opposite Lewis at the pub, raising her eyebrows at the brown paper bag.

 

“It's a little something from my allotment,” Lewis said with no little pride. Laura smiled and peered inside. “Courgettes. I remember you said you liked them.”

 

“You're growing courgettes? How very Gordon Ramsay of you.”

 

“They were James' idea. And a good bit of the work was his, too, so I suppose I should be calling it our allotment, not mine.”

 

“How is James?” Laura asked, picking up her menu.

 

Lewis hesitated for a moment before answering. “Fine.”

 

Laura rolled her eyes. “My own fault for picking a question that could yield a one-word answer, I suppose. Let's try: what's new with him?”

 

 _Not much,_ Lewis was tempted to say. _Except that every Sunday for the past month he's been getting us both hot and bothered by massaging my feet._ “He's learning Aramaic,” Lewis offered instead. “Or re-learning it, I suppose; says he's a little rusty. I told him his accent needs work, but other than that –”

 

Laura snorted. “Don't be too hard on him; I don't imagine he's had much call to use it in the past seven years. And what about you? Anything interesting happening in Robbie Lewis' world?”

 

Lewis pursed his lips. “Not really. Same old, same old.” _Last time after he left, I wanked thinking about Hathaway's hands._ “Have you decided?” he asked, nodding at her menu.

 

“Yes, please. A ploughman's and a pint of cider.”

 

Lewis didn't have to ask if she preferred chicken or beef. He headed to the bar to place their orders, and returned with the cider for her and a bitter for him.

 

“What about you, then?” Lewis asked. “What's your news? And don't try to tell me you don't have any – a copper always knows.”

 

Laura fidgeted with her napkin for a few moments before speaking. “I do, as it happens. Though I'm not sure how to tell you.”

 

“Usually opening your mouth and making sounds come out is the best way to go, though I suppose you could write me a letter.”

 

Laura glared at him. “Thanks for making this easier,” she said, though she was hiding a smile. Lewis grinned and took a sip of his pint. “I might as well tell you; this town is so damned small it's only a matter of time before you see us together. I'm dating Alan.”

 

It took far too long for Lewis to process the name, but then he had been retired a year. “You're seeing Peterson?” he asked, too loudly if Laura's quelling look was any indication.

 

“Yes, I am. Any objections?”

 

“None,” Lewis said. “Only a bit surprised, is all. I seem to remember you saying he wasn't your type.”

 

Laura's cheeks pinkened. “He isn't,” she admitted. “We're like chalk and cheese. But I – we...” She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “It doesn't make any sense, but we're utterly mad for one another.”

 

Lewis was surprised when her words didn't stir any resentment or regret in him. “Val and I were like that,” he said quietly, and Laura's head snapped up. “None of our friends could see it, and we couldn't either. But it didn't matter. The heart doesn't have to make sense, pet,” he said, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand.

 

“Thanks,” Laura said, returning the pressure. “I've been thinking – I believe that was why you and I didn't last. We fit too well, like a comfortable pair of shoes.”

 

“Nah,” Lewis said, smiling before releasing her hand. “I was just too old for you.”

 

“Don't you dare,” Laura said, frowning. “That wasn't it at all. You're going to find someone, Robbie – someone you're not expecting. And it'll hit you like a bloody lightning bolt from the blue, you'll see.”

 

Lewis patted her hand. “I appreciate your optimism, love,” he said fondly, while privately he wondered if lightning hadn't already struck him right between the eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“They're cold,” James said at the first touch. “Even colder than last time.”

 

“You know what they say: cold feet, warm...I have no idea, actually. What goes with feet?”

 

James raised an eyebrow at him. “You're going to need some of those circulation-aiding stockings soon,” he said, and if this was a sample of his seduction technique, Lewis was unimpressed.

 

“Oh, sod off, you. I've always had cold feet. Val used to complain about them, and Laura –” he trailed off on a groan as Hathaway's fingers dug in.

 

“I'm not complaining,” James rumbled. “They'll be warm by the time I'm done with you.”

 

It was all Lewis could do to not make an embarrassing noise at James' words, though he was sure the lad had to have felt the shiver. He shut his eyes. They'd turned over the garden this afternoon; their work was finished for the season. After today, Hathaway wouldn't have an excuse to touch him like this any longer. And what was worse, Lewis wouldn't have an excuse to be touched.

 

He supposed he could take up running, or something else that required regular massages. A slightly hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up between his lips.

 

“How was your lunch date with Laura?” James asked. There was an edge in his tone that made Lewis open his eyes.

 

“Not a date,” Lewis said. “Just two old friends catching up.” He paused, studying James' reaction. “She's with Peterson, actually.”

 

James' eyes widened. “You're joking.”

 

“I think she's as surprised as we are,” Lewis said. “You never know, do you?”

 

James' gaze fell to his lap, and Lewis froze. Hathaway's fingers were trembling when they caressed Lewis' feet, leaving electric trails on the surface of his skin.

 

“Sometimes you do,” James said, nearly too softly to be heard. “Sometimes it feels as though you've always known.”

 

Lewis couldn't breathe. “James,” he croaked out, “lad, you –”

 

James' hands fell to his sides and his shoulders slumped, like a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut. “I should go,” he murmured, but he didn't move right away, and Lewis used the moment to his advantage. Swinging his legs off Hathaway's lap, he sat up and closed the distance between them on the couch. James stared at him, his expression wary, almost fearful. On impulse, Lewis took hold of one of his hands, gently enough that James could free himself, but firmly enough that Lewis hoped James would know he meant business.

 

“Robbie –” James began, looking down at their entwined hands in clear disbelief.

 

“I don't have the first bloody idea of what I'm doing here,” Lewis admitted roughly.

 

James barked a laugh. “Neither do I.”

 

“All I know–” Tentatively, he stroked a thumb over James' palm, and was rewarded with a shudder “–is that I think about these. A lot.”

 

James' fingers twitched in his. “You do.”

 

“I don't want today to be the last of it.” He took a deep breath before continuing. Bugger it, the lad had been brave just now; he could manage as much. “And I – I think I want more.”

 

“How much more?”

 

“I'm not sure,” Lewis answered honestly.

 

James stared at him for a long moment, unmoving, while Lewis' heart leapt in his chest, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure. Finally, the lad raised his free hand and cupped Lewis' jaw.

 

“Okay?” James asked. His gaze dropped to Lewis' mouth and he leaned closer.

 

“Yeah,” Lewis managed. He could feel the puff of Hathaway's breath against his face, and then their lips brushed together. He shivered at the contact; he hadn't fully admitted to himself just how much he wanted this.

 

“Too much?” James murmured against his mouth.

 

“I'll let you know,” Lewis growled, angling his head and pressing their mouths together. James groaned and wound his arms around Lewis' waist, pulling him closer.

 

As it turned out, it wasn't too much for James to deepen the kiss until it turned positively filthy, or for Lewis to slip his hands under the hem of James' t-shirt, finally giving into his craving to touch as he'd been touched. It wasn't too much for him to discover that James' nipples were as sensitive as any woman's, or to take James' hand and tug him to his feet after he'd rendered him boneless and panting. It wasn't too much to lie down beside him, and it wasn't too much to have James slowly, carefully take him apart. It wasn't too much to see the need in James' eyes, unguarded for the first time, and it wasn't too much to show James how he was needed in return.

 

Afterwards, Lewis lay on his back staring up at the ceiling, slowly getting his breath back. He would have been self-conscious about it, but beside him, he could hear Hathaway puffing like a steam engine. “Well, it's nice to know it wasn't just some kind of –” Lewis waved a hand “–foot thing.”

 

James propped himself up on an elbow and stared at him, gobsmacked. “Some kind of _foot thing_?”

 

Lewis flushed. “I did wonder, for a while. If it was just – something I, or you – I mean, if that was all there was to it.”

 

“Robbie,” James said slowly, “I have a _thing_ for your feet because they're part of you, not because I have a thing for feet in general.”

 

“Not that there's anything wrong with that.”

 

“Of course not. It’s only that for me –” James ducked his head “–it wasn’t all I wanted. But it was all I thought I'd ever have, so I took it.”

 

“Ah, lad,” Lewis murmured, raising a hand to brush back James’ messy hair from his forehead. Over the last while he’d let it grow out, and it could be quite floppy at times. Lewis had decided he liked it.

 

James leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. “Are you telling me you’re kink-friendly, then?”

 

Lewis felt an odd fluttery feeling in his stomach. “I don’t know. I might be a bit too old for kinks, don't you think?”

 

James smiled more than a little wickedly and trailed a finger down Lewis’ chest. “You thought you were too old for this, but the evidence points to the contrary.” His hand disappeared under the sheet; Lewis reached down and grabbed it before it went too far.

 

“I can't argue with evidence,” Lewis drawled, tugging James’ hand to his lips and kissing the fingertips. James’ eyes darkened and the next thing Lewis knew, he was being snogged with clear intent. Though he knew he wouldn't be able to follow through so soon after the first time, Lewis felt desire flood his veins in a warm wave, the yearning for James nearly overwhelming, even worn out as he was.

 

“Robbie,” James murmured, mouth relentless on Lewis' chin, neck, chest. Summoning his last reserve of energy, Lewis surged up, shoving the lad over onto his back and straddling him. Hathaway looked up at him, startled – though Lewis didn't think he could be as startled as Lewis himself.

 

“What am I going to do with you, hm?” Lewis murmured, looking down at Hathaway, taking in the light sheen of sweat making his pale skin glow, the evidence of a sucking kiss to his collarbone. Lewis had done that to him; the knowledge excited him. “I can tell you're going to be twice the trouble you were before.”

 

James arched under him; amazingly, he was already at half-mast again. Christ, he wasn't _that_ young. “Oh, at least,” James agreed, eyes sparkling with amusement. He reached for Lewis' cock, but Lewis snatched his hand away again, fingers encircling the wrist.

 

James stared at Lewis' hold on him and groaned. Catching on quickly, Lewis leaned forward, carrying Hathaway's hand with him until it was pressed firmly into the mattress over his head. When James tried to touch him with his other hand, Lewis tugged it up to join the first, crossing the wrists before restraining him. James looked wrecked, and his hips bucked convulsively.

 

“Simple as that, eh?” Lewis asked, leaning in to brush the question against James' ear.

 

“Yeah,” James confirmed, the voice so strained as to be nearly unrecognisable. He sucked at Lewis' earlobe, whimpering when Lewis tightened his grip. “Simple as that.”

 

Straightening, Lewis released his hold on Hathaway's wrists. “Don't move them,” he growled, and James nodded, swallowing hard as Lewis wrapped the hand that had been holding James captive around the lad's renewed erection. James flung his head back, exposing the beautiful curve of his long neck, and at that moment Lewis decided he'd never been more grateful for an old, worn-out pair of wellies in his life.


End file.
